Casting Shadows
by Elise May
Summary: It's late and Lavinia is tired. The two of them are locked together in the corner of the room, and she turns to him, and she says, "If he could just admit the truth, all four of us might have a chance."
1. October, 1938

_Hello! And a happy new year to all! I hope 2015 will be everything you wish for it to be and more. _

_This story is a series of glimpses into the lives of the Crawleys and the Carlisles, written in a non-chronological order, and following the canon of the show up until episode eight of series two. It is inspired by the music of Sleeping At Last (I would definitely listen to South__ if I were you) and as it is my first published piece of Downton Abbey fanfiction, I am rather nervous to post it. I hope you won't find it too terrible!_

_I own nothing in this chapter or any of the chapters following it. Enjoy! _

* * *

**October, 1938**

* * *

It is a service fit for any Countess, but perhaps not for one in possession of the Grantham name. The church, which now stands tall behind the widower – a dark shadow cast in the late morning sun – had been full in appearance but empty with feeling, mirroring the man Matthew fears he will now become. After all, grief is heavy to carry on two shoulders, especially when one is so used to sharing the weight of it over four.

A shaky breath escapes his lips. He is standing over his wife's final resting place, but there is an eerie calm about him, an inner peace he welcomes with arms that are open when they ought to be closed. Lavinia had been the one to die because Lavinia had been the good one, the strong one, the one who hadn't deserved any of it. The cancer had been quick, God had been unjust, and yet there is a small part of him that feels as if this is the way it was always supposed to happen.

He closes his eyes.

Matthew feels her presence before he sees it. His heart skips multiple beats and there is a breathlessness caught in the back of his throat, from which he loses the ability to speak. His eyes open slowly, blinking against the cold light of day, to find Mary standing beside him. Her skin is like paper, pale and thin, her body shrouded in black, and there is a look in her eyes resembling that of a wounded animal.

"I'm sorry for your loss," she says. Her words are hollow.

The silence is broken and Mary watches Matthew as he flinches. She speaks in such a way because she does not trust herself to say anything more; apologies and confessions long since buried beneath the continuity of life are on the tip of her tongue, and now is most certainly not the time to be honest in the way in which her soul cries for her to be.

Her coldness is the most natural thing about her. The sun is warm on her back and it makes her angry, for Lavinia will never feel such warmth again.

Before he replies, Matthew has to swallow bile. When he speaks, his voice is uncharacteristically hoarse and he nods his head in understanding, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"Thank you."

They are numb in equal measure. Perfectly still and perfectly composed.

She can't stop herself from staring at him. His handsome features are impervious to age, but his jaw is set. His eyes are glassy with unspent tears and they are black around the edges due to a lack of sleep. His shoulders are slummed, his back bent, and stubble is visible against cheeks which have a complete lack of colour to them. Despite herself, Mary feels the urge to reach forward and run her fingers through his greying hair, to pat it flat and tame his unruly curls, even though it is not her job to do so. Even though this has not stopped her from doing so in the past.

She settles for his hand instead, her fingers a ghost of a touch, and his whole body quivers at the contact.

"If you ever need anything—"

He pulls his hand away before she can finish and there is a desperate longing in her eyes, as brown as his are blue. Her own hand falls limply by her side and she stares absently at it. Time is beginning to catch up with her. Her veins are now visible beneath porcelain skin, which is less smooth than it once had been, and it makes her feel so terribly old. She is beyond the point of exhaustion these days, often wondering what it would be like to sleep and sleep and never wake up.

Her heart clenches painfully as he notices her staring and turns his face away from her. She then swallows, her eyes – misty from his rejection – shifting to the soil at her feet.

"I won't come to you, that's for sure," says Matthew.

She waits a moment, considering the bitterness of his tone, before a strangled, "_Good_," escapes her lips and it surprises her how much she means it.

The silence that follows is uncomfortable, even if it is not entirely unwelcome. Lavinia may be at peace, but Matthew is not; and if Matthew is not, neither is Mary. The latter sighs with thoughts of the former, and then the wind picks up and she is taken with it to church, to all of the christenings and the weddings and the funerals where she'd cried _Oh, Matthew_ and he hadn't cried anything at all.

She is interrupted from her rather turbulent line of thought by the rustling of leaves behind them. There is a third figure approaching and she lets her body sag when she realises that their time is up. There is an expected hand on the small of her back before she can step away from such advances, and she finds herself almost leaning into it. She's grateful for that hand because it's the only thing keeping her upright.

"I'm sorry for your loss, Lord Grantham."

Matthew immediately turns his head to the sound of Richard's voice. He is cool and calm, the poised gentleman wearing the wrong attire, even after all of this time. Mary stands between them; a rose nestled between two thorns. Her husband is a man of almost sixty, but his ruthless streak has never strayed far from him and it is obvious that his words contain little compassion, if any at all. He is clinging to propriety as if it is still all he knows when it comes to matters of the heart.

Life has taught her that people don't change, their circumstances change around them.

"Thank you," says Matthew.

Richard thinks for a moment.

"How is Lady Catherine?" he asks and his voice could be considered soft. It is softer than Mary's had been, at least. "She seemed a little distraught during the service, though it was nicely done. Lavinia would've liked it, I think. The simplicity of it all was rather like her."

Mary visibly flinches. From Richard's lips, this is a compliment. To Matthew's ears, it is anything but.

"My mother is taking Lady Catherine back to the house," he says. His voice is completely void of emotion. "You must remember, Sir Richard, that she is an eighteen year old girl who has just lost the only mother she will ever have. I think she has earned the right to be a little distraught, don't you?"

"_Of course_," comes too quickly from Mary's lips and a hand is on Matthew's arm before she can even think to stop it.

Even though she is not looking at him, Mary can feel Matthew's eyes on her and they burn with great intensity. She is not the only one to notice this, however, because Richard has increased the pressure of his hand against her back, forcing her to remove the arm of the younger man from her grasp. She does so quickly, but Matthew is slow and reluctant to remove his eyes from her face.

"Well," says Richard. "We'll leave you to your grief."

Mary turns to him, perplexed.

"Richard, I don't think—"

"We're going home, Mary," he says, daring her to argue with him by narrowing his eyes. "We are of no use to _our_ children in a boneyard."

She is sure that she has imagined the emphasis that is put on the word _our_, but then she notices that Matthew has tensed beside her, a deep frown creasing his already worn brow, and her stomach turns itself over. She feels sick.

Richard's lips curve into a small, triumphant smirk at how defeated they both look. And rightly so.

"Goodbye, Cousin Matthew," says Mary, the title a cold comfort against trembling lips.

Matthew exhales heavily and is surprised by the sudden, overwhelming need to feel Lavinia's hand in his – warm and soft and _alive_. He blinks tears from his eyes as he wills his aching heart to slow. To still. To _stop_.

Four have become three and he has become one.

"Goodbye, Cousin Mary." He waits a beat. "Sir Richard."

* * *

_Thank you for reading! Thoughts so far?_


	2. May, 1919

_Thank you so much for your words of encouragement! I feel much better posting this now that I know people are interested. You cannot know how grateful I am for your support. __Whilst I know it may seem very unlikely at the moment, I promise you that this story will eventually __have a happy ending. There's just quite an unhappy middle to contend with first._

_This is another short chapter, but I hope you will enjoy it nonetheless!_

* * *

**May, 1919**

* * *

"I thought I told you to steer clear of May."

The Dowager Countess' voice cuts through the noise of the Great Hall.

She is standing in her place at centre stage, surveying the chaos that is going on around her with an impassive expression veiling her face. The ladies of the house – excluding Cora, but including Isobel and Lavinia – are to her left and right, exchanging knowing glances and smirks they do well to keep hidden. Violet sighs, leaning heavily against her cane as servants continue to hurry past them; carrying flower arrangements she will no doubt have to make amendments to, presents she knows neither bride nor groom will appreciate in the way future aristocrats should.

Lavinia, knowing that she has been addressed directly, is a mere rabbit caught in the headlights, and so it is up to Isobel to speak on her behalf. She takes over without complaint.

"They did, originally," she replies. "But an April wedding couldn't possibly have gone ahead with the spread of flu so rampant. I thought you of all people would be able to understand that."

She gives the stairs behind her a pointed look.

"How is Cousin Cora, by the way?"

Violet huffs, the exhalation of breath unladylike if passed from another's lips. She leaves the question hanging mid-air.

"They could've at least waited until June," she points out.

As usual, she has the last word on the matter.

"_Marry in the month of May, and you'll surely rue the day_," recalls Edith, smiling slightly to herself. The other women wonder where she is going with this. "The poem it's taken from is part of Irish folklore. I think it is complete nonsense, but it seems that some people—" She pauses at the way Violet is openly staring at her, as if she cannot believe her ears. "—take Bridget Haggerty's words as an actuality rather than a suggestion."

Nobody quite knows what to say to that, but Edith's rambling appears to have built some confidence in Lavinia. It isn't long before she speaks, her voice very nearly excited.

"Oh, I see," she says. "If that's the case, shouldn't the poem be relayed to Sybil?" _Instead of me_ is thought and not heard. "She's the one who'll be marrying an Irishman, after all!"

Sybil immediately brightens at the thought of her upcoming nuptials. It makes a refreshing change for her wedding to be spoken of fondly rather than with scorn, but it does not escape her knowledge – or Lavinia's, for that matter – that the rest of the group have stiffened at the very mention of it. Sybil swallows. It is Lavinia who unwittingly makes matters worse by asking, "Will the wedding be held in Ireland?"

Sybil is acutely aware of everybody's eyes on her and a small blush begins to form on her cheeks at all of the unwanted attention. She's angry, knowing that the reason they make their disapproval so known is because they want her to feel ashamed of her decision, but they can't force her to feel what she never will.

It is her inner tempestuousness that causes her to trip over her words.

"Well, Tom and I—"

She is interrupted.

"No, it most certainly will not," declares Violet. And to emphasise her point, she stomps her stick firmly on the ground in protest, the look on her face that of a spoiled child.

It is hard enough for her to come to terms with the fact that her youngest granddaughter is to marry a servant _(a former servant, Granny; Tom's a journalist now). _The least the girl can do for her is marry him in her own country and with her own family present. Those terms do not seem unreasonable to her.

To Sybil, however, they simply add insult to injury. She has to bite her lip to stop herself from opening her mouth and screaming, but before she can do anything too unseemly, she meets the kind eyes of Isobel. The older woman has watched this sorry scene unfurl with surprising restraint and is currently thinking of something diplomatic to say. She eventually decides on:

"Regardless of where the ceremony will be held, I hope I can expect an invitation."

She then flashes Sybil an affectionate smile. Sybil returns it, glad that someone appears to be on her side.

"Why, of course, Cousin Isobel!" she replies. "I would love to have you there."

"And I would love to _be_ there!"

Violet resists the urge to roll her eyes.

"Well, then," she says.

And they move on to more pressing matters.

"Do you think your wedding will be before or after Sybil's?" asks Lavinia, turning to Mary.

Mary, who has not said a single word during this entire exchange – her head elsewhere, her stance oddly meek – finds that her tongue is too thick for speech. The corners of her mouth lift to form an insincere smile.

"Well, Richard and I—"

"Oh, Matthew!" says Isobel, her words too convenient an interruption not to have been sent by God Himself. "There you are."

It is relief that reaches Mary first and it is panic that reaches her second. Her thankful sigh is swallowed and it is replaced by her heart, twisting uncomfortably as it tries to break free from her ribcage, begging for release. _Matthew_. He approaches them slowly, spine straight and cane in hand, trying so very hard not to look at her. As he drifts ever closer, her eyes burn and they are clouded by memory, looking at – without seeing – the man who she cannot be with and she cannot be without.

The air between them is palpably charged with words left unsaid, but nobody is paying them enough attention to realise.

Nobody except for Violet, that is.

"Mother," says Matthew, ducking his head to place a kiss to her cheek.

His voice sounds strangled, distant; the expression on his face sheepish and somewhat thoughtful. He smiles what would be better described as a grimace and Violet notices, frowning, that he seems to be short of breath. His eyes are unable to stay in one place for too long and despite the apparent progress he has been making in terms of his recovery, he grips his cane like a lifeline. He is standing on unsteady feet.

"Hello," he says and he has taken Lavinia's hand.

He squeezes it once, the pressure he applies tight enough to momentarily whiten his knuckles, and as Lavinia turns to him – her adoring gaze something he knows he does not deserve – his eyes flash with guilt. Guilt that is missed in the blink of an eye, but not to Violet. She sees everything of importance and she is able to recognise the same feelings of remorse in Mary's eyes, which are as far from the couple as they can possibly be.

"How are the preparations coming along?"

Lavinia smiles.

"Much the same as last time," she replies. "But this wedding will go ahead, I'm sure of it!"

The group share a quiet, yet mirthless laugh in reference to the present wedding's previous postponement. Their cheerfulness, however forced, leaves a bitter taste in Violet's mouth. She wishes she could be as ignorant as they appear to be – but the resigned, haunted faces of Mary and Matthew as they stand apart from their company, and apart from each other, are harder for her to forget.

She can't pretend that all is well when it so obviously is not.

Never one to ignore facts once she is in possession of them, Violet unabashedly meets the eyes of her eldest granddaughter with a depth that makes the girl's legs weaken beneath her. Mary swallows, hard; wondering what she knows and how she knows it. Panic rises within her. She cannot look away. Violet's eyes seem to speak to her.

_I'm not_, they say. _Are you?_


	3. April, 1919

_I hate to repeat myself, but I would just like to say thank you for your continued support! Here's the third chapter. It is set a month before the previous one._

* * *

**April, 1919**

* * *

"Well, I couldn't, could I?"

It is posed as a question, but Mary knows better than to disagree with the only answer there is. It is the only answer there must ever be.

Her breath catches.

"Of course not," she says.

"However much I might want to."

Her eyes widen, lips parting slightly in surprise.

"Absolutely not."

Mary and Matthew stop dancing.

Two magnets – one north, one south – act upon an impulse quelled for far, far too long. Lips meet in a kiss that is slow and gentle, almost hesitant in nature. It is a kiss that is nothing more than a lingering glance, but it is one that robs Mary of breath and Matthew of clarity.

They sigh into one another. A hand is on each of his shoulders. The grip around her waist is slack and it is held together by hesitant fingers. They are aware of noise coming from the gramophone, but it is white noise that slips further and further from consciousness the more sure their hold on one another becomes.

He leans in for a second kiss, noses brushing before lips dare to touch. The tenderness of him, of them makes her stomach flutter in a way that is alien to her after years upon years of unfulfilled want, need, love, lust. Gloved hands slip to Matthew's neck. His lips are warm and soft and as insistent as she remembers them to be, and it isn't long before she can feel his tongue – _his tongue!_ – tracing the outline of her lips, and she is opening her mouth to him, his arms tightening around her waist – _her waist!_ – as they move irrevocably closer together.

A moan is heard. It is so quiet it is impossible to know from whose lips it escaped. It breaks through their ardent state of delirium, causing them to part with wide eyes and trembling limbs. Minds race in time with the frantic beating of lovesick hearts.

"_Matthew_," is a breathless gasp.

"_Mary_," is a softly spoken endearment.

She forgets her protest as he kisses her again, just the once, and she lets him. She wants him to. Subconsciously, the pressure of his fingers increase against the fabric of her dress and an overwhelming sense of heat rushes through her. It is too much and too little at the same time. She pulls back to study his face – the darkened eyes, the reddened cheeks, the lips she has great difficulty tearing her gaze from – and finds that she could not stop this even if she wanted to.

It is the way in which he is looking at her that forces her to say, "_We can't_," but the words do not leave her lips easily. Even as she speaks, she is fingering his tie with an instinct, an impulse that should shock her.

Something should.

She watches Matthew smile at words he knows only to be true; the devastation he so obviously feels is reflected in his expression. His hopelessness knocks the air right out of her lungs. It renders her speechless.

This time, _she_ kisses _him_ and they do not part until it is absolutely necessary to do so.

His lips ghost her cheek, her jaw, her ear.

"I know," he whispers. His voice cracks.

Mary meets eyes that brim with understanding, longing, compunction that is wholly disregarded the moment his lips press to her neck. She clutches at his shoulders. There is nothing slow, nothing gentle about the way he kisses her there. He explores her skin with purpose, as if he is looking for something she knows he will never find. She gasps, the search continuing, his hands taking her hands as the feel of silk is replaced by that of skin.

He is careful not to crease her gloves as he removes them, placing them blindly into pockets he never knew he had. Unable to resist, his hands move to trace skin previously left untouched. Her back feels soft beneath his fingertips and she trembles at the contact. It is the combination of skin on skin and lips on lips that causes Mary, definitely Mary, to moan in a manner that one would not consider to be ladylike.

She feels Matthew smirk into her mouth. She has loosened his tie without conscious thought and she lets it hang limply around his neck, lacking purpose. Fingers lace into hair that just begs to be mussed and she feels his groan more than she hears it, the low buzz making her pause for thought.

They break the kiss. His eyes are dark, darker than she has ever seen them, darker after ten kisses than they were after three, and she wonders what they will look like after thirty or forty, fifty or sixty. Excitement of a kind that is different from that she has felt before courses through her veins. It is excitement laced with wonder, excitement that blossoms without fear and without force. Mary soon comes to realise that what she feels now is welcome, as wrong in mind as it is right in heart.

He leans into her, but she stops him with her words.

"Not here," she gasps.

He nods in understanding.

"Follow me," he whispers.

Bare hand in bare hand, they walk to a door beneath the stairs. His breath is heavy, laboured; Mary's pace fast, desperate as she uncharacteristically lets him take the lead. Matthew opens the door, feels for a light, but it is Mary who presses her lips to his in a hungry kiss, pushing pause and protest away from where it is no longer needed. She kisses him again, and again, and again.

The door is kicked shut behind them, the needle of the gramophone making a scratching sound as the song comes to an end. Honour becomes a thing of the past.

* * *

"Where are we?"

The room is bathed in darkness, a single lit lamp by the side of the bed – built for one, but occupied by two – the only thing keeping them in sight of one another. Heavy limbs lie entwined among sheets that are warm and crumpled, hearts fighting to keep to a steady rhythm, breath filling silence that thoughts not yet able to be spoken aloud take solace in.

Mary feels detached from her body. Her skin is far too tight to be her own, hands touching what she knows they should not. There is an indifference about the way she lets him close the infinitesimal space between them. She is unable to do it herself because all she can do is _think_, as if time had stopped and started, the moment they shared living within the pause; after the before, but before the after had interrupted and made this a reality.

"My old room," Matthew replies.

His fingers trace a circular pattern over her shoulder. She shivers, but not from pleasure. A coldness has began to seep into her bones. Guilt is beginning to stab at her gut.

"Of course."

The house does not have many bedrooms on the ground floor and so it seems rather fitting for him to have taken her here. It's ironic, she supposes, that the four walls he spent months within, coming to terms with the fact he would never make love to a woman, are the four walls in which he has lost his virginity, in which he thinks he has taken the virginity of another.

He has not.

Matthew frowns. Her head is a welcome weight upon his chest, but there is a distance between them that even the feel of his skin on her skin cannot bridge. He brushes hair from her forehead to look down at her properly. Her expression is a bit too pensive for his liking and concern naturally creases his brow.

"Are you alright?" he asks.

She swallows thickly, resisting the urge to laugh at the ridiculousness of his question. Are all men this obtuse?

"Yes," she replies. "I'm more than alright, I think."

_That's the problem._

He rests his cheek against the top of her head, sighing softly.

"God, Mary." She shivers again. "Do you know what this means?"

His eyes are instinctively drawn to the clothes strewn about the floor. It is as if he is only just realising what it is they have done.

"Yes." She nuzzles further into him, inhaling his scent and trying to commit to memory all of what was never hers to know in the first place. She blinks moisture from her eyes. There is a first time and a last time for everything. Occasionally, the first time can also be the last. "It means that we're selfish. It means that we've broken promises we had no right to break."

He stares at her.

"No, I meant—"

But she is out of the bed before he can finish. She leaves the warmth of his embrace for the cold evening air that bites at her skin in a way she feels is much more deserving. Goosebumps prickle her naked form. She retrieves her clothes with her back to him, his eyes unable to leave the curve of her spine and all that lies beneath it.

"We must get up," she tells him, hurriedly throwing on her chemise. "Everyone will be wondering where we are."

Reluctantly, he sits up and stretches out on the bed. Wincing audibly, his face twists in pain. There is a dull ache at the base of his spine that burns as he moves and he curses under his breath, trying to settle into a more comfortable position.

Mary does not dare to look at him. Her cheeks flush with a different kind of guilt and she feels idiotic for forgetting what is, ultimately, standing (with the support of a cane he damns all the way to hell and back) in the way of them having this – whatever _this_ is – every day for the rest of their lives.

He reaches for her hand, but she flinches and turns away from him. He immediately withdraws.

"They won't," he tries to assure her.

"They will," she manages to assure him.

The fight leaves his body in an instant and he lets her dress without further complaint. Leaning against the headboard, he closes his eyes and takes deep breaths, willing away the pain in his lower back. When his eyes reopen, they find Mary standing in front of him, hands on hips, throwing him an exasperated look he would find amusing under any other circumstances.

Her dress is back on, the creases that now adorn it easy to explain if need be. She kneels, using the bed as leverage, to replace her shoes and stockings. Each moment that passes in which he has yet to move takes more patience away from her until she finally snaps, standing to her full height.

"Matthew, you must get up," she says. "You need to go back to Crawley House and retrieve Lavinia's things."

Oh.

_Lavinia_.

Her name hits him squarely in the gut, physically taking him aback. His eyes meet Mary's and he knows that she feels it as well as he; and yet he wonders how she is able to speak of her with such calm when the mere thought of her, all smiles and laughter and nervous energy, reduces him to a shrivelling wreck. A cold, vice-like grip has taken hold of his pounding heart. Matthew swallows thickly.

"Doctor Clarkson says she is to stay here tonight," Mary continues, her eyes scanning the room for a mirror. "If she has caught the flu, it will be easier for him to tend to her here. With the others."

He nods, remembering that there is illness in the house and wondering how he ever came to forget.

"Of course," he murmurs.

She has found a mirror, a small one in the corner of the room that she uses to try and salvage what is left of her hair's shape. Clumsy fingers attempt to copy the work of another's more capable, more nimble hands with pins and twist that she is familiar with, but not in a way that is of any help to her.

Her brow raises in question as she catches Matthew's reflection watching her, wonderingly.

_Get up._

She doesn't have to say it.

Rolling his eyes, he pulls back the sheets and goes to stand. Mary averts her eyes, for her benefit more than his, and only smiles once she knows that he will not see.

It doesn't take him very long to dress, his appearance not as unkempt as hers appears to be. Once Mary is happy that her hair looks somewhat more presentable, she crosses the room as if to leave, her eyes anywhere but on him. She manages to reach the door, but his hand on her arm prevents her from going any further, her body tingling pleasantly as it remembers just what those hands are able to do to her. She sighs defeatedly.

His voice is quiet, pleading.

"Mary, wait. Can't you see? This changes everything. I—"

Her heart leaps out of her chest.

"Please," she whimpers. He has never heard her beg in such a way and he doesn't like how vulnerable it makes her sound. He doesn't like how he is able to leave her defenceless and feeling what he has no right to make her feel. "Don't say it."

His brow furrows and he suddenly feels very angry. He doesn't understand why he can't say what he means. Their problem is that they never do. They never say what they mean and perhaps if they had, perhaps if they'd have been less stubborn and more strong, less proud and more patient, this would not be their life. Their life would be _theirs_, Mary's and Matthew's, not Mary's life and Matthew's life; close, but never close enough.

He cannot let this go.

"But it's true!"

The passion in his voice melts Mary's expression into one of fondness. She longs to say to him what she will not allow him to say to her, but before she can give into temptation – before she can give into temptation _again_ – she remembers herself. She remembers who she is and what it is she has done. She hardens from the inside out.

"Your wedding is in three days," she says in the most level tone she can muster.

He shrugs, hating himself for it.

_Lavinia_.

"It doesn't have to be."

If his words surprise her, she doesn't let it show.

"Oh, Matthew. You don't mean that," she replies. "You really don't."

He pauses to ponder, conflicted eyes meeting the disappointment in hers. His face falls. She's right, of course. She rarely isn't. His heart sinks as it comes to the realisation that he could never throw Lavinia over, not now, not after this.

He grows desperate.

"Mary, I love—" _you_ is spoken into her mouth as she presses her lips to his.

Kissing him is the only way she knows how to make him be quiet. This is a kiss that tastes like goodbye; it is the one she had intended to give him earlier and walk away from with her heart still partially intact. She does not let it linger for longer than it needs to. Nor does she give him the chance to kiss her back.

Her expression is one of regret as she pulls away from him, the distance between them a matter of inches, but it feels as if he were on one side of the world and she were on the other.

His chest aches, eyes burning with tears he will not let fall.

She looks him in the eyes and says, "I am marrying Richard regardless of whether you marry Lavinia."

He opens his mouth to speak, but she cannot bare to hear him say it.

"But—"

"We made love?"

It is a whisper, an intimate secret that must stay just that: _secret_.

"Well, yes," he replies. "Surely that must count for something. Surely that must mean something to you."

His eyes plead for her to agree with him. And she does.

"More than you know," she admits in a voice that is soft, but her words only seem to aggravate him further.

"Then, I don't understand you!" he all but shouts. "Richard Carlisle is arrogant and pompous. A man like that never make you happy! Mary, _please_. Why must you marry him?"

She matches his anger, his passion, equally.

"Because I am able to recognise a mistake when I have made one!"

Her words cut through the still air between them, a bullet straight to the heart. Silence falls. Mary lowers her eyes, Matthew's sharp intake of breath telling her all that she needs to know. She bites her lip, trying to ignore the darkness of his expression, and continues before she loses her confidence.

"And as for your, quite frankly, juvenile opinion of my fiancé, you should know that I couldn't care less whether you like him or not. All that matters is that _I_ like him. And I do. Very much."

Matthew's hands form into fists.

"Do you? Do you, really?"

She gives him a warning look and takes hold of the door handle.

"Mary." His voice caresses her ear. He is close, _too close_, yet she still strains to hear him. "Don't be like this."

She shakes her head at him, incredulously.

"Like what?" she demands.

He cannot think of an answer to that question. So, he starts again. They lock eyes.

"What we've done is wrong and I'm not saying that it was right, but we do need to talk about it. Properly." He pauses. "We can't pretend that this hasn't happened, Mary. _You_ can't pretend that this hasn't happened."

_I know._

He speaks as if his scent does not linger upon her skin, as if she could ever forget what she knows she never will.

"Can't I?" she scoffs.

Her chest feels tight, her lungs starved of oxygen. It is getting increasingly more difficult for her to breathe when he is looking at her in such a way, but she must. She must breathe and in this room, with this man, a million broken promises and a million more broken dreams reduced to nothing but ash at their feet, she can't. She physically can't.

Mary makes a decision.

She turns the door handle, breaks the eye contact and takes a shuddering breath.

"Watch me," she says.


	4. September, 1938

_I was hoping to upload this chapter much earlier than I am. However, due to a number of technical issues I will not bore you with the details of, and owing to the fact that this chapter would not stop growing, I have been unable to. Sorry! It's better late than never, though – right?_

_Your words really do mean more to me than you know. I honestly cannot thank you enough for reading, reviewing and following this story. Hugs to all! _

* * *

**September, 1938**

* * *

Gloved hands wring in front of her as it – her house, her home – comes into view. There are many words she can think of to describe Haxby Park. It is large and vulgar, sad when they first moved in with its bare walls and missing furniture, but even sadder now that the children have grown and its modernities seem to have lost their novelty value. It is said that a house can sense a feeling in the same way an animal can; and hers can only sense sorrow.

Oh, Haxby has bore witness to great joy, the happiest of days and the most fond of memories. But it seems that when one's life begins because another's has ended, when one's family thrives on the plight of another's which could have, so easily, been one's own, it is harder to find comfort in the comfortable and easier to find love with the loveless.

Mary does not enjoy dancing on other people's graves, but she feels she has been left with very little choice.

The smile she wears is slight as she steps into the hall. Barrow is there to greet her with his usual _good afternoon, milady _and his_ how are you today, milady? _and the expected_ Sir Richard is waiting for you in the drawing room, milady. _Today, Richard waits in the library. There is a crease in Barrow's brow, a flicker of something behind eyes that struggle to meet her own that speak all of what the butler will not. Mary lets him take her outerwear, thanking him politely as she excuses herself to go in search of her husband.

A knot forms in the pit of her stomach.

"Hello, dear."

The turning of pages, _newspaper_ pages, echo in the quiet of the library. Richard does not look up as Mary approaches, but there is a fond smile tugging at his lips. She weakly returns it.

"Hello," she says, eyes scanning the room around her. "Where's Josephine?"

Richard wets his lips.

"In her room," he replies. "Writing letters."

The knot slackens just enough for her to tease, "No doubt the young Mr. Foyle will be on her list of correspondence."

Richard huffs. Resisting the urge to chuckle at her husband's obvious disapproval, Mary crosses the room to sit in the chair opposite his.

"She's writing a letter to Robert, actually," he informs her. There is a slight pause before he continues, adding, "At least, that's what she told me."

Her raised eyebrow is an amused one.

"Oh?"

"Yes. Those two are far closer than we realise." He tuts. "The poor dear. Josie never seems to know what to do in his absence."

Mary hums her agreement.

"Except wait for his return," she points out, wondering when he became so perceptive, wondering when he came to know their children better than her.

It hurts that their daughter will only reply to _Josie_ if it is said in the soft Scottish lilt of her father's downy voice, the one kept separate from that used in the presence of anyone else. It shouldn't, she knows, for it is a petty jealousy, but it is one that has been present since the day her eldest was born; the storm reserved for Mama, but the calm afterwards for Father only.

Robert is a different matter entirely. The pet names never stuck with him – Bobby, Robbie, Bertie, _son_. Unlike his sister, he looks for the approval of no one. He is his own man (if thirteen year old boys can be considered as such), all fingers and thumbs, floppy hair and toothy smiles.

She is about to ask him what it is he is so engrossed in reading when he places the paper down on the arm of his chair and leans forward enough to make her frown. He is looking at her with knowing eyes that appear to be even colder than usual.

She takes a deep breath. Her irritation is evident – as is her concern. Mary has never been one for dramatics.

"What is it?" she asks.

"There was a telephone call from the Abbey while you were out."

The knot in her stomach pulls tighter.

"Oh," she says. "What did Molesley want?"

Richard shakes his head. There is a sadness in the lines that crease his forehead, a sadness he attempts to wipe away with ageing fingers that are stained with ink.

"It wasn't the butler," he replies. His voice is too calm. "It was Catherine."

She stares at him, the lack of alarm in his expression only increasing the alarm in hers. There are so many questions she wants to ask him, so many that she loses the ability to speak altogether. He rises from his chair to place what she's sure he feels is a comforting hand on her shoulder, but all the hand manages to do is heighten her distress.

"I'm sorry, Mary." For once, he actually sounds it. "She said Lavinia has gotten worse."

Her blood turns to ice.

"Worse?"

She blindly reaches for his hand, clinging onto it for dear life.

"She said it is very unlikely that she will last through the night."

The sound that escapes Mary's lips is somewhere between a bitter laugh and a disbelieving cry. A choked sob follows it, her eyes blinking rapidly in a feeble attempt to hide her tears and – by extension – her weakness. Standing on unsteady legs, she shrugs off his hand to walk towards the door. She is dazed, in a state of shock that makes it impossible for rationality to present itself.

Richard is frowning.

"What are you doing?" he asks. "Where are you going?"

Clouded eyes narrow at him, unappreciative of the accusation in his tone. She is about to leave, but he has followed her to the other side of the room and taken her hand in a tight grip she does not have the strength to free herself from.

"Where do you think?" she bites back. "She's dying, Richard. I need to see her."

He shakes his head, looks at Mary as if hers is not screwed on properly.

"And do you really think she'll want to see you?" he asks, his voice harsh. "You said it yourself. She's _dying, _my dear. She should be with her family."

"I am family," she insists.

But Richard just laughs in her face, his lips curling into an unsavoury smile.

"How you have the audacity to call that woman family after what you've done to her is completely beyond me."

Mary swallows, her eyes flashing with anger. A moment passes in which breath leaves lips faster, louder. She bunches her hand up into a fist and slips it easily from his larger one, Richard not bothering to reclaim it and Mary accepting this as a surrender she feels is long overdue.

"And what is that, pray?" she challenges him.

He is closer than he was before, giving her a warning look that no longer has the ability to make her flinch. Twenty years do that to a person, for now all she feels is numb, indifferent. If anything, she's amused. These days, she is a threat to him and it makes her wonder who is really in power, who is really in control.

Richard does not miss a beat.

"You know precisely what."

She scoffs.

"God, I have never known anyone who can hold a grudge for as long as you do," she snarls.

Richard shrugs. She brushes past him, opens the door and passes through it. She doesn't look back; he doesn't raise the slightest objection. Rubbing his tired eyes, Richard watches her as she walks away. Anger is a dull buzz in his veins, fading more and more until she is out of sight and it, too, is gone.

He closes the library door.

"Perhaps that is because I have a longer memory than most," he says quietly to himself.

* * *

Mary does not wait for the motor to be brought around. She walks a quarter of an hour car journey in thirty minutes, legs moving so fast they do not feel as if they belong to her. She seems to stumble down the path leading to her childhood home; vision blinded by tears, throat raw from the exertion. The air is cold, harsh as it hits her skin. The beauty, the grace, the elegance of Downton Abbey is not as striking to her as it usually is, for when she enters the house, her thoughts are elsewhere, up the stairs and across the landing with a woman in a bed she loses her colour in, struggling for breath and the chance to say a proper goodbye.

The hall is empty. Of course, this is to be expected in a house that is ran with half the staff her father had employed back in the day. The current Earl of Grantham is efficient to a fault, a man who has been thrust into something he does not want, someone who does not enjoy paying others to do for him what he could easily do for himself.

The contrast between Downton and Haxby – Matthew and Richard – is remarkable.

Mary is interrupted from her thoughts by a quiet voice.

"Lady Mary?"

She turns to find Molesley looking grave and paler than she has ever seen him. Hiding her surprise at how outwardly affected he seems to be, she offers him a watery smile and bows her head, feeling slightly embarrassed.

"I'm sorry, Molesley. The door was open; I came straight in." She pauses. He appears to be waiting for something, something which she is afraid she will not be able to give. She looks down at her feet, adding, "Lady Catherine telephoned earlier. She spoke of Lady Grantham's condition and I was wondering whether I'd be able to see her."

The butler's expression morphs into one of apology.

"That won't be possible, milady. His Lordship said she is to have no visitors," he explains. "She is in a very fragile state and he thinks it would be best if he kept the amount of people around her to a minimum. Family only, he said."

_I am family._

She does not bother repeating herself.

"Of course he did," she replies, resigned.

Her smile is far too bright to be genuine. She wants to argue with him, she wants to demand that Molesley take her to see Lavinia at once. It is in her right to do so. He is a servant; his job is to obey.

Mary shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Now that she has arrived at the house, she is unsure whether she should stay or stay away. Fortunately for her, Isobel takes that decision out of her hands.

She descends the stairs. Her spine is curved after eighty years of endurance, her pace slower than it once was. The day dress she wears is simple, ten years behind what is the fashion, and she looks tired – so, so tired – as she meets Mary's eyes, surprise evident in the lines that crease her face.

She does not kiss the younger woman's cheek in greeting. Instead, she frowns at her.

Molesley discreetly makes himself scarce.

"Cousin Isobel," Mary says.

Isobel gets straight to the point.

"What are you doing here, Mary?"

She almost sighs.

"Catherine called. She said Lavinia has gotten worse."

If they were discussing anything else, _anyone_ else, this is the point in the conversation when Isobel might have smiled. She admires Catherine. Her granddaughter is a headstrong young woman who will disobey her father's wishes if she does not agree with them. She and her grandmother are very similar in that respect, as they are in many others.

"She has," Isobel confirms. "A lot worse, I'm afraid. The chances of her surviving the night are close to nil."

Hearing this in Isobel's quiet, sombre voice as opposed to her husband's seemingly indifferent one makes what is being said all the more real to Mary. There are no two ways about it: Lavinia is dying. Lavinia is going to die fifty years before her time and there is nothing she, nor Isobel, can do about it.

It becomes increasingly more difficult for her to swallow as she struggles to hold back tears.

"That's awful. I'm so sorry," Mary murmurs. She takes a deep breath. "I was hoping to see her, but Molesley said that Matthew doesn't want her to have any visitors."

Isobel nods. Her eyes are wet, too.

"He doesn't," she replies, the bluntness of her tone suggesting that, like her granddaughter, she does not agree. "But I have forced him to leave her side to go down to the kitchens and have something to eat. He's terribly cut up and being around her constantly isn't doing him, or her, any good. Catherine is with her now. I'd say you have a good twenty minutes before Matthew's return."

She gestures to the stairs behind her.

"Go on," Isobel says. "You know which bedroom it is."

Mary nods, briefly touching her hand as they pass one another on the stairs.

"Thank you," she whispers.

And she means it.

* * *

She expects the room to be dark when she enters, but it is bright. Too bright. The curtains have been drawn, the blue sky outside the house juxtaposing the dying woman within it. Mary's legs feel weak. She barely manages a step into the room before Catherine notices her, rising from her seat and ushering Mary out into the hall. She clicks the door shut behind them. Lifeless eyes stare into eyes equally as lifeless.

When Catherine speaks, her voice is small, broken, lost.

"He told you about my call, then."

Practicality is in her bones like it is in her grandmother's, like Mary wishes it were in her father's. She is blown away by the courage of this girl, this teenager, and not for the first time either. Bobbed hair frames her face, partially hiding the red, angry blotches that adorn her skin. Her hands smooth imaginary creases from her trousers before Mary stills her fiddling, taking both hands in hers and squeezing them tightly.

She nods.

"He did," Mary replies. "Oh, my dear. I am so sorry."

Catherine stiffens. Her back is straight and her jaw is set in a fashion that one might call determined, but she allows her cousin to draw strength from her hands, even if they contain the last bit of strength left in her.

"Please, don't," she replies. She won't accept anyone's pity. "She's in a bad way, Mary. A really bad way. The doctor has assured us that she is as comfortable as she can possibly be, but the pain relief is so strong that she's not herself. She's not making any sense."

"What do you mean?"

"She seems distant." Catherine's voice grows quieter and quieter. "Faraway."

_As do you_.

Mary manages to stop herself from saying this at the last possible moment.

"Well, I have come to see her and I am not going anywhere until I have," she replies, sounding more determined than she feels.

Catherine studies her face. Mary's concern is evident and there is almost an air of desperation about the way her eyes dart from place to place, eventually settling on the closed bedroom door that she has been denied passage into. Taking a deep breath, Catherine pats her hand before she releases it, turning her back to open the door.

She hesitates.

"Very well," she says. "Just don't say I didn't warn you."

* * *

After ensuring that her mother is comfortable beneath pillows that are larger and more luxurious than Lavinia has ever been used to, Catherine gives her forehead one final kiss before leaving the two women alone. She does not close the door behind her.

Mary has to suppress a gasp as she takes in the full extent of Lavinia's appearance. She is almost unrecognisable. Her long, golden hair is tucked behind her head, glistening with sweat and knotted to the point of pain. The peachy nightgown she wears swallows her reduced form and does nothing for her pale complexion, making it obvious to Mary that it has been chosen by a man.

Lavinia is still on the bed, her limbs laid out neatly as if she were already a corpse. Her eyes are only half-closed; her breath loud and ragged in the otherwise silent room.

There is a part of Mary – the weak part; the part that has dealt enough with death and decay and would much rather run from a responsibility that isn't actually hers – that does not want to be here. But there is another part of her – a stronger part of her – that hates to leave things unresolved.

Whilst saying goodbye is always hard, not saying it is even harder.

"Mary," Lavinia croaks.

At the sound of her name, Mary starts. Lavinia's voice is so quiet and so unexpected, but she hears it all the same.

Cautiously, she steps closer to the bed and perches on the chair beside it. She smiles only for Lavinia's benefit, but stops once she realises that Lavinia will not smile back. Instead, she reaches for Mary's hand and holds it as tightly as she can, which isn't very tight at all. Mary has to swallow a lump in her throat as she tries not to think about how light and limp Lavinia's hand already feels in her own.

They sit in a silence that is continually broken by the sound of Lavinia's wheezing. Mary starts, again, as the woman in the bed begins to cough so powerfully that her whole body shakes with the effort of it all. She watches, helplessly, as Lavinia struggles to catch her breath. Her hand leaves Mary's to cover her mouth as if the cough were contagious, as if what she has is a mere cold and not cancer of the lungs.

_He has this cough, you see. A weak chest._

Matthew's voice rings in her ears, speaking words that are almost two decades old. Mary finds herself wondering whether this fate has been waiting for Lavinia since the day she was born, since the day her father died and left her alone in the world, left her an orphan.

It doesn't take long for her to spring into action, picking up the glass of water that is on the bedside table and holding it to Lavinia's lips. She almost chokes as she takes in too much of the liquid at once, Mary wide-eyed as she places the cup down and adjusts the pillows behind Lavinia's head to ensure that she is comfortable.

Lavinia feels nothing. Exhaustion is now so familiar to her that it has become commonplace. The drugs have numbed the pain in her body, but they have numbed everything else along with it. Her eyes are unfocused and squinting as they shy away from the light; sleep all too tempting to her, even though she knows that losing consciousness in her state means that she might never regain it.

Surprisingly, she is no longer afraid of death. It is a certainty and it is one that she will welcome when the time comes.

Her voice is barely a whisper as she says, "I'm so glad you're here."

Mary nods, bravely.

"So am I," she replies, letting Lavinia retake her hand.

"I'm dying, you know," she says.

She doesn't even sound like herself, her words so hopeless and so definite that Mary can only sniffle in response.

"I know." She stares down at their joined hands. "Catherine told me."

A ghost of a smile spreads across Lavinia's lips.

"She's a good girl, my Catherine," she says. Her voice is as proud as it is dreamlike, fingers stroking over Mary's. "My baby. My only baby."

There is a sort of innocence in her eyes, an innocence that makes Mary's heart beat faster. Lavinia might not be as young as she once was, but she is still younger than one should be when lying on one's deathbed, drowning in a sea of white cloth and soft silk, skin discoloured and in need of some sunlight. It makes Mary want to sob, for this is all so wrong and Lavinia deserves none of it. None of it at all.

She squeezes her hand, panic slowly rising within her when Lavinia does not squeeze back. It seems that she has drifted off into a light sleep. Mary has to gently shake her shoulder in order to wake her.

"Lavinia?"

Her eyes are wild as they open. Mary is surprised to find tears streaming down her cheeks, but there is no physical evidence of her crying as she speaks.

"I'm tired, Mary. So tired." She attempts to clear away the hoarseness in her throat. "Aren't you?"

Mary frowns.

"Of what?" she asks.

"Pretending." There is a pause. A breathy, bitter laugh escapes Lavinia's lips and it sounds almost as painful as it feels. Mary shifts uncomfortably in her seat. "I was going to say lying, but you've never done that, have you? Not really."

Mary's stomach flips in what she hopes is not realisation.

"Lavinia—"

"I _know_." Brown eyes widen, fixed on emerald ones that glisten and harden in a way that really does hurt. Never has Mary heard Lavinia's tone sound so firm. "I know about Robert. I know about everything."

Mary's heart stops.

"How?"

It is her only coherent thought.

"Richard."

Bile rises in Mary's throat. She feels betrayed, cheated – but, most of all, she feels ashamed, for this is what Lavinia should be feeling, but Lavinia cannot feel a thing. Bowing her head, she closes her eyes and tries to get her head around what she has just been told.

"When did he tell you?"

"After Robert was born. You were so caught up in your grief that—"

Mary has to interrupt her. Time has done little to heal that particular wound and she cannot bear to hear anymore about it.

"Why didn't you ever say anything?"

Lavinia attempts to laugh.

"What difference would it have made, truly?"

Mary shakes her head.

"But this doesn't make any sense," she thinks aloud.

The smile that Lavinia puts on is one of sympathy, but it looks almost patronising.

"You're not the only one who likes to pretend, Mary," she replies, wishing that she had a handkerchief to pass to her friend – because, despite everything, that is what she is and that is what she always will be – as a few stray tears leak from her eyes.

Mary quickly brushes them away.

"Oh, Lavinia," she sighs. "I am so, _so_ sorry. How you must hate me."

Lavinia squeezes her hand.

"I could never do that," she replies. She then waits a beat. Even though her mind has been heavily induced by drugs, she still knows that one must choose one's moment carefully when speaking to Lady Mary Carlisle. "Matthew doesn't mean to—"

Mary cuts her off. It is as if she knows what she is about to say before she has even said it.

"Don't defend him," she pleads. Her words are desperate. "Don't defend us. Not after what we've done to you."

"But—"

"Please." Mary's tone is firm. "Matthew doesn't deserve your forgiveness and I certainly don't."

Lavinia goes quiet, her mind moving onto something else entirely.

"I remember when I met Robert for the first time. Do you?" Mary shakes her head. He was born during a period in her life that was is fuzzy to her she can hardly remember it having happened at all. "You were sat in the nursery, this dark figure in the corner of the room with a baby in your arms. He was wearing as much white as you were black. Richard was there, breathing down my neck."

Mary has to laugh at that, however much the memory may hurt.

"He's always got to be breathing down someone's," she reasons, arching a brow.

Lavinia smiles.

"Matthew was downstairs," she continues, undeterred. "He wouldn't come up. At the time, I didn't think it was odd. Not that odd, anyway. But, then, I saw him. I saw Robert. I looked into his eyes – his blue, blue eyes – and I saw what I never wanted to see. I saw—"

She cannot go on, for she is suddenly gasping for breath, her eyes rolling to the back of her head as Mary stands and begins to frantically shake her. She calls her name – once, twice, three times – but it does not reach Lavinia through the thick fog that envelopes her like a warm, soft blanket she never wants to leave the comfort of. She feels content as she lets her eyes close, her body sag and her breathing stop.

"Mama!"

Mary looks up to find Catherine running into the room, Isobel and Matthew hot on her heels. The young girl heads straight from her mother, looking over her for any signs of damage and acting as if Mary isn't even there. She steps back, allowing Isobel to take her place as she desperately searches for a pulse. Mary and Matthew stand beside them – together, but separately – sharing a single loaded look that tells Mary she should have shut the door.

"She's breathing! There's a pulse!" Isobel suddenly announces. It flickers beneath her fingertips. "It's okay. She's okay."

She strokes Lavinia's cheek with the tenderness of a mother as Matthew wipes tears of worry, of panic from his eyes. He looks as tired as Isobel, Mary's chest tightening as he sighs. Never before has she seen him look so utterly defeated.

"She's obviously not okay, Mother," he fumes. The ferocity in his voice is not what Mary had been expecting. She frowns at him and he frowns back, adding, "I think you should go."

The room seems to be smaller now that five people occupy it instead of two. Mary looks around it, her gut plummeting as she notices just how angry Catherine seems to be. Her lips are a straight, thin line, but it is her eyes that worry Mary the most. They are hard eyes, eyes that see too much, eyes that do not want to believe.

They ignore Mary. Her father, too.

"Now, wait a moment," Isobel is quick to defend, but Catherine does not let her continue. She shakes her head.

"No, Papa is right."

It does not escape Mary's knowledge that _Papa_ is forced out of her mouth, whereas the other three words are not.

Isobel gasps. "What?"

"Mary needs to leave," Catherine says, matter-of-factly. "She has unsettled Mama and Mama needs rest."

Mary bites her lip.

"Catherine," she starts.

The girl's chin quivers.

"Just go, Mary!" she cries.

Lavinia whimpers on the bed. Catherine's sobs are ugly and uncontrollable once she finally lets them escape, stepping away from her father's embrace as he tries to comfort her and leaning against her grandmother instead. Mary's heart aches.

"Please, I am begging you. Just go!"

Mary would fight back, but she has never been able to deny her goddaughter anything.

"Okay," she whispers. "I'm going."

Catherine nods.

"Good," she spits. "Because there is no place for you here. Do you understand?"

Mary can feel her legs shaking beneath her.

"I understand," she says. _I understand._

* * *

_It's a good job yesterday was Valentine's Day! You might want to go and read some fluff now. (I'm sorry I'm not sorry.)_


	5. July, 1919

_First of all, let me apologise for how long this chapter has taken. Life is ridiculously busy at the moment and I simply have not had time to write. Unfortunately, I think the next few months are going to follow a similar pattern, and so I thank you in advance for your patience. _

_In the meantime, I have made a cover image (albeit a very simple one__) and put up a list of this story's chapters in chronological order on my profile, which I will add to each time a new chapter is written. I have also created an 8tracks mix for Casting Shadows under the username of worldwars. If musical aids are your thing, be sure to give it a listen!_

_Before you read the chapter, please know that I am grateful to every single one of you who is reading this. Your support means a great deal to me and you are all such lovely people! _

_Enjoy. _

* * *

**July, 1919**

* * *

"Pregnant?"

Mary frowns. Lavinia is standing in front of her, looking oddly small, exposed and with a hint of disappointment in her once hopeful eyes. Her smile slips, heart pounding violently in her chest, for Mary's reaction is not the one she had been expecting.

She begins to nervously laugh.

"You needn't sound so surprised," she says. Her fingers curl and uncurl by her sides. "I know this isn't really any of your business, but I had to tell someone and there was no one else to tell. I mean, Mrs. Crawley is lovely and she is a nurse – but she's also Matthew's mother." Her smile is sheepish. "I thought it might make things awkward between us."

Mary is silent, eyes blank as she stares off into the distance. It is as if the words have not yet reached her ears, but the impact of them has hit her all the same.

Awkwardly, Lavinia places a hand on her shoulder, shaking it lightly until she receives some sort of response.

"Mary?"

To the sound of Lavinia's tentative call, she blinks herself out of it. The smile that spreads across her lips is so wide that it causes pain in her cheeks – though her face is not the only part of her that aches.

"Well, that's wonderful news!" she gushes, rising to hug Lavinia with so much vigour that she almost knocks the blonde off her feet. Mary pulls away, her voice breaking slightly as she says, "I just didn't expect _it_ to happen so soon."

Lavinia's nose crinkles.

"_It_?"

They share a laugh that fills Lavinia with relief, but Mary with absolutely nothing. She feels cold and empty inside – _dead_, her brain supplies, _unaffected_ – but she can't, she _won't_, stop smiling.

"You know, I haven't long since returned from my honeymoon," Lavinia points out. Her smirk disguises her coyness. "I'm a married woman now."

Mary nods absentmindedly, her stomach turning as she considers all of what being a wife – Matthew's wife, Richard's wife – entails.

Remembering herself, she supportively pats Lavinia's hand, taking a seat on the edge of her bed and moving over so that Lavinia can sit beside her. They do not look at each other as they speak. They instead opt to gaze at the room around them. Mary's bedroom is a place that Lavinia has seldom visited – but, to her, it is the heart of Downton Abbey, not because of its colour or the secrets that it keeps, but because of the person it belongs to in every sense except for the literal one.

"When did you find out?" Mary asks.

Lavinia bites her lip.

"A couple of weeks ago. It was when Matthew and I went to stay with Daddy in London."

There's a pause.

"Does he know?"

"Papa does, but Matthew doesn't."

"Why not?" Mary looks at her intently. "Lavinia, what's wrong? What is it?"

Her voice is laced with concern. Lavinia's, once she finds it, is laced with doubt and insecurity.

"He will be happy, won't he?" She swallows before adding, "Matthew will be happy about the baby," as if simply saying the words will make them true.

"What?" Mary cannot hide her surprise. "How can you even ask that?"

Lavinia twists uncomfortably in her seat.

"It's just that we've never really talked about having children." She laughs at her own expense, causing Mary to frown. Her face adopts a thoughtful expression. It seems that Matthew and Lavinia aren't the only ones who have avoided the subject, no matter how important it is to married life. "It's silly, I know. He's my husband, for goodness' sake, and I'm not ignorant to the fact that we are expected to produce an heir for your Papa. It's just not a topic of conversation that we've ever discussed." She takes a deep breath. "Does Matthew even want children?"

She looks at Mary knowingly, familiarly, as if she knows the answer to the question that has haunted her ever since her childhood doctor put his clinical hand in hers and whispered, _January_.

Subconsciously, Mary cradles her childless womb with both hands. There are some things that are too private, too personal to share. Pushing thoughts of any previous tête-à-têtes to the back of her mind, she tuts fondly and meets Lavinia's eyes.

"Oh, Lavinia. Of course he does!" Her heart squeezes with the agony of a time she'd much rather forget. Memories return a little bit too quickly for her liking, replaying over and over inside of her head. She attempts to shake them off. "Do you remember when he was wounded?"

The angry retort she expects to hear, the angry retort she'd expect to hear from herself, never comes.

"Yes," Lavinia replies thickly. Her vision is blinded by tears. "Why?"

This is as painful for her to hear as it is for Mary to recall.

"Do you remember how upset he was that he couldn't have children?" she asks. "How upset he was that he couldn't have _your_ children?"

"I suppose so."

Clutching the handkerchief that Mary offers to her, Lavinia uses it to shakily wipe her face, a respectful silence falling between the two women as Mary discreetly looks away. Lavinia does not make a sound as she cries; her tears are pitiful, tracing tracks that they have travelled along many times before. The soiled cloth is buried deep into her hand once she is finished with it. She blinks up at Mary, smiling bravely.

"Matthew will want this child, Lavinia," Mary eventually whispers, managing to smile back at her in a way that she hopes is encouraging. "He'll be ridiculously happy when he finds out, I promise."

"Really?"

Lavinia's disbelief is so endearing that Mary can't stop herself from happily laughing at it.

"Really," she says. They hold one another's eyes, a moment more passing than what is considered to be _safe_. Her pulse rocketing, Mary fears that Lavinia can see everything: every false word, every empty sentiment. Luckily for her, the dressing gong rings the perfect interruption before so much as a breath can pass between them. She stands up as if on queue, beginning to walk towards her vanity. "Now, be off with you! Anna will be up soon. I'll see you at dinner."

Lavinia hums her agreement.

"It'll be your last dinner as a single woman," she says, sniffing once.

Mary rolls her eyes. The prospect she faces is not a very attractive one. There is a voice in the back of her head, asking, _have you ever really been single?_

"_Yes_," she replies, reaching for her bottle of scent. The voice does not agree. "I suppose it will be."

* * *

He is the first person she sees as she steps back into the room, feeling a great deal lighter now that her fiancé is gone for the night. She lingers in the doorway, staring at his blonde head, avoiding his blue eyes, and smiling in the only way she knows how to – _slightly_. Her feet itch to move, so she places one foot in front of the other, walking automatically over to where he stands in the corner, one hand resting on the chair that Sybil usually inhabits, and the other nursing a glass of whiskey that looks too full to be a pre-dinner drink.

She takes a deep breath and taps his wife's arm, alerting the couple of her presence. He looks at her once, and then looks away. It is a quick, easy movement that carves at her insides. He seems to be disinterested in her arrival, turning to Robert for conversation, and leaving her, _once again_, to tend to Lavinia when it is the last thing on earth she feels like doing.

How can she be expected to solve other people's problems when she does not have the capability to solve her own?

"So, is that the last we'll see of Richard tonight?" Lavinia asks kindly.

She has recovered well. Her simple, shapeless daydress has been replaced with a golden gown more extravagant than what is usually her custom. She wears a sparkling tiara upon her head, a family heirloom from her mother's side, that is a symbol of femininity, prestige, _marriage_.

"Yes," Mary replies. "The next time I shall see him will be tomorrow, at the alter."

Lavinia smiles. At least, she tries to.

"What an exciting prospect," she says, her voice a lot less gleeful than she hoped it would be.

To her left, Edith hides a smirk. To her right, Matthew grips his whiskey glass just a little bit tighter.

Mary notices none of this.

"He's staying at The Grantham Arms tonight," she says, and there is no escaping the mirth with which she delivers these words. "Obviously Richard was perturbed by the idea of staying at a public house the night before his wedding, but he had no other choice. Granny wouldn't put him up on principle alone; and it would be unfair to ask Cousin Isobel to house him, what with you and Matthew only recently married."

Lavinia's blush is modest.

"But couldn't he have stayed here?" she asks. "The house is big enough."

"Well, of course it is." Mary grins. "We could've banished him to his room until the morning, but you know as well as I what Richard can be like. He would've seen me one way or another, if only to spite the rule."

Lavinia laughs dismissively at that. Some might even be inclined to describe the sound as _snobbish_.

"You don't believe in all that bad luck nonsense, do you?"

Mary forges shock.

"Of course I do," she argues, and it is in that moment that Matthew risks another glance at her, a glance that makes her voice grow somber and her eyes harden. "And I've had enough bad luck to last a lifetime, don't you think?"

* * *

Two hours pass before she manages to catch Matthew alone. Dinner is a painfully slow affair, everyone's favorite topic of conversation being Sybil, her absence and her husband's inability to provide for her. She finds him hovering – _brooding –_ by Lavinia's side as she talks animatedly to Edith about something he could not look less interested in, even if he tried.

She tilts her head to the side once, and then waits. It doesn't take him long to make his way over to her, for she is the sun in which he orbits, and he is powerless whenever she is near. Regardless of that, there is a carefulness in his step, a cautiousness that did not exist before her _you shouldn't be in here_ and his _I know, Mary... but a more beautiful bride never drew breath_.

In retrospect, she realises that it was perhaps not the best idea to try on her wedding dress in the middle of the afternoon, in the middle of the library, when anyone – servant or otherwise – could've pushed their way in. And they did. _Matthew_ did, and she now has difficulty drawing breath whenever thinks of his intense, open gaze lingering upon her as she spun half-circles in front of the makeshift mirror.

"Matthew," she says politely, her eyes narrow and voice clipped. He is by her side as if he had never left it. "You've been avoiding me."

He swallows thickly. The guilt that eats away at him, taking one piece of him, and then another, and another, until there is nothing left to take, is written all over his face.

"Have I?" he asks. His attempt at sounding confident fails spectacularly.

"Yes, you have," Mary replies.

"Well, in that case, I profoundly apologise."

Raising a sceptical eyebrow, she settles her eyes on Lavinia. Together, they observe her movements; the way she throws her head back when caught in the midst of laughter; the way she settles a hand upon the curve of her stomach that does not yet exist when she thinks that no one is looking.

Unfortunately for her, she is always being watched.

They are in a crowded room, but Mary feels distant from every occupant within it – especially the one with which she is in the closest proximity to. Draining the rest of her glass, she hands it to the nearest servant without so much as a second glance, and turns to him. He smiles softly across the room at his wife, his bride to whom she is more beautiful. She silently seethes, her jaw clenching and unclenching before she trusts herself to speak.

"What happened to talking about it?" she asks gently.

Matthew tries his utmost not to react. He doesn't flinch, ignoring the twist of his gut and the odd burning sensation that starts off in his chest, spreading lower and lower until it reaches his heart.

"I got married," he says carefully. "And you're getting married. Tomorrow, in fact."

Her nostrils flare with suppressed anger.

"I know that, but you seemed quite adamant that we talked about it before."

"It was a mistake," he manages. His voice sounds an octave too high, his face flushing in a way that is anything but pleasant. "What happened between us was a mistake." His eyes soften as they fall upon her, though it doesn't make the finality of his words hurt her any less. "I'm just sorry that it has taken me so long to realise it."

_Me too._

This knowledge should make her heart feel lighter, but it seems to have added a considerable amount of weight to it. Although this is what she had wanted – and expected – to hear, she wasn't prepared for how the words would make her feel. She bites her lip. Whether or not she is relieved or disappointed is of no consequence. He has now come to his senses and she should be glad of it.

She _is_ glad of it, and she tells him so.

"I'm glad we're finally on the same page," she reasons. Her smile is deceptive.

With a nod, Matthew offers out his hand for her to shake. She stares at it, unease settling in the pit of her stomach.

"Friends?"

His smile is endearing, she has to admit, but there is an element of forethought behind it that she cannot ignore. He doesn't want to get too close to her. He is holding something back in his gaze, even as he holds his hand forwards.

Mary ignores the gesture, for they have been friends before, and she knows from experience that _friends_ is something they can never be. Not truly. Gingerly, Matthew replaces his hand by his side and rubs at the back of his neck, embarrassed. Mary takes a step away from him without either party noticing.

She clears her throat, searching for a more neutral subject that they can discuss.

"How was France?" she asks. "I haven't seen you much since you left for honeymoon."

_Except for that day in the library._

Her blood runs cold. It seems that there is nothing left between them that hasn't been poisoned in some way or another. False pleasantries are all that remain, and the mere thought of that tugs at Mary's heart. This is what they have become – shells of who they once were – and they did it to themselves. That's the saddest part of all.


	6. August, 1939

_Hello! Remember me? I am so, so sorry for my recent absence – but, as usual, thank you to all of my readers! You really put a smile on my face and make telling this story all the more worthwhile with your reviews. _

_Do keep in mind that this chapter is set at the very end of August, 1939. There is also another author's note from me at the bottom explaining a few things, but until__ then..._

* * *

**August, 1939**

* * *

They are alone in the house. Richard is in London, Robert has already left for boarding school, and the servants are downstairs where her husband believes they belong. Usually, such an arrangement would be most welcome. Josephine is still her baby and she deserves to be treated as such, something which seldom happens when her father is at home. She pretends to be adult and sophisticated in his presence; adopting a demure persona when he introduces her to potential suitors, sipping wine through pursed lips and closed eyes.

As Mary passes her daughter's bedroom en route to her own, she stills outside the door. Her hand hesitates as it rises to knock against hard wood, the shake in her fingers new and unsolicited.

Mary hasn't seen much of Josephine today.

After returning home from a trip to the post office in the late afternoon, she had cast herself up the stairs and only returned down them for dinner, which had been dismal at best. Their dining room table is as unnecessary as most of the furniture in their house. It is not suitable for a family of four, and when only two of that four are seated around it, one might as well be in the music room, and the other in the library.

The small talk they had shared over the course of their meal had been awkward and stiff. Mary knew that something was playing on her daughter's mind because of the way she stared at her plate whenever she was spoken to, only picking at her dessert and forgetting to thank Barrow for his service as he took away their plates, which she never, _ever_ forgets to do.

It never fails to amaze Mary how much of her younger self she recognises in Josephine. Thankfully, she is a lot more mature than Mary had been at her age, but that's only because she has had to be. She is cold and judgemental to those who deserve it, but kind in private, selfless to some. Like her mother, she is very selective in who she trusts. At the tender age of seventeen, she has already learnt that _I want_ never gets. Not everyone is who they appear to be; good intentions do not always have one's best interests at heart.

Mary fell in love with her daughter as soon as she laid eyes upon her pink, wriggling form. _Mine, _she had thought, as tiny fingers reached for her thumb, squeezing and stroking and learning their strength, _all mine._ Over the years, the love Mary feels for her daughter and for her son has only grown in size. Her heart feels full whenever they are near and it is because of her children that Mary believes in love, believes that it is right and moral; beautiful when it is given the chance to blossom.

"Josephine?"

She knocks on the door once.

There is no verbal reply from the other side of it, only the faint sound of shuffling and something – a book, perhaps – being dropped to the floor abruptly.

She knocks again.

"Darling? It's Mama." _As if she didn't already know that_. "Can I come in?"

The door opens with a start.

"_Oh_."

Mary is taken aback by Josephine's appearance. She is dressed for bed, her summer nightgown light and billowing around her from the slight breeze that has been allowed entrance into the room through the open window in its far righthand corner. Her long, brown hair has been messily put into a braid by her own fair hands, which are now clenched into fists by her sides in an act of restraint. It is her tearstained face that causes Mary to worry. It has long since dried from when she had foolishly let herself cry in anger, but something stabs at Mary's heart at the very sight of her darling girl looking so weak.

Another thing Josephine never, _ever_ does is cry.

"Darling?"

Mary takes hold of her daughter by her upper arms and sits her down on the bed she has slept in ever since she was old enough to leave the nursery. She kneels beside her, placing a hand on either side of her face to force Josephine to look at her – but she resists.

Mary cannot hide her concern. A lump forms in her throat; each cause of Josephine's distress that her mind conjures up for her is more heinous than the one thought of before it.

"What is it?"

Josephine sniffles, but says nothing. Her eyes settle in her lap.

"Is it Jonathan? Have the two of you had a falling out?"

Nothing.

"Is this because Robert left early to go back to school? Because, darling, you must know that..." She trails off as Josephine fails to respond to her words. Then, it hits her. "You've not been reading your father's newspapers again, have you?"

The possibility of Germany invading Poland is unsettling to say the least. Mary is not stupid. The invasion will not happen without consequence, and what better consequence is there than war? The country has barely recovered from the last one, _Mary_ has barely recovered from the last one, but Richard insists that a second Great War will not take place – though, if it does, it won't be the first time he has been wrong.

Again, Josephine does not say a word. This time, however, she turns to face her mother.

"I saw Catherine in the village today."

Mary feels silly for having not mentioned Catherine's name when she is usually the most obvious cause of Josephine's upset. The two do not fallout often – but when they do, it hits them both particularly hard. Mary has always been somewhat jealous of the bond the two girls share, for even the relationship she has with Sybil, her own sister, pales in comparison to theirs. They are so close, an unlikely pair to say the least, but it is lovely and heartwarming to see.

Josephine continues, "As you well know, we haven't seen much of her since her mother's passing."

Mary nods.

"That's understandable," she reasons.

She is given a funny look.

"I know," replies Josephine with attitude. "But she blatantly ignored me in the street and that is what I could not understand."

Mary swallows. There is a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, telling her that she knows what's coming. She has known for almost a year that it was only a matter of time before this conversation took place.

Catherine cannot keep secrets from Josephine for long.

"Catherine and I have always been close. Like sisters in a way." Josephine laughs, but the sound is bitter and twisted. The irony of the situation is not lost on her, and it hurts. "I went ahead and asked her what I had done to deserve such coldness. And do you know what she said to me?"

Mary's chest tightens.

"What?" she whispers.

"She said that it's not me who she has been avoiding, but you. She's been avoiding _you_ – and _me_, only by extension."

"I..."

Her mother's stutter only further ignites the fire burning deep within Josephine's belly. She can feel herself shaking with anger, a deep frown creasing the lines of her face. She rolls her eyes before she gestures for Mary to continue – but coherently this time.

"Did she tell you the reason why?" Mary softly asks the question she knows she daren't.

She is acting, _pretending_ yet again. It seems that some habits never die, and Mary continues to do what she has been doing for most of her life; appearing outwardly oblivious, but internally knowing more than what is good for her.

"Yes."

Josephine's answer is simple, to the point.

"And do you want to tell me the reason?"

Mary reaches for her hands.

"_No_."

She pulls them away. Never before has a single world sounded so cold, so hard.

"But I must ask you this," Josephine says. She seems to be hesitant for some reason; nervous. Mary is certainly the latter. "What Catherine says about you – is it true?"

Mary attempts to brush it off with a smile, but she is becoming increasingly more desperate to hold on to the lie, if only for a moment longer. She can feel the thread of it unraveling beneath her breast, and it has stretched out too far for her to be able to retrieve it now.

"How can I possibly answer that when I don't know what it is she said to you?"

Josephine exhales loudly. She has grown bored and tired of the excuses now.

"You know perfectly well, Mama." Her previous hesitation is gone; her natural confidence is back in full force. She meets Mary's eyes unwaveringly. "You can't lie to me."

"Darling—"

The words fall from her lips in a loud, panicked rush. "Is Robert really Cousin Matthew's son?"

Someone gasps, and it is difficult to tell who. Mary feels hot and cold at the same time, clasping a hand over her mouth as she stares at Josephine in shock. The girl's chest heaves as she breathes in deeply, the words she has spit out having had a physical impact on her. They wear matching expressions of disbelief upon their faces, but the _dis_ of that belief begins to fade as the silence between them stretches on.

Mary cannot lie to her hysterical daughter any more than she could to a dying Lavinia.

She lets go of the thread.

"Yes, he is," she says simply, though the implications of what she is saying are anything but.

"Oh, God. _Oh, God._" Josephine is breathless all of a sudden. She sobs once, and Mary does not reach forward to hold her. There are tears in her own eyes, but if she knows her daughter at all, she will not find any comfort in her mother's arms. Especially not now. "Mama, how _could_ you? How could either of you?"

She is shouting now, moving further up the bed – away from Mary and her breaking heart – as if the corruption that consumes her could be passed on to others. The tears that fall down Josephine's cheeks are carelessly rubbed at, angrily making marks against her pale skin that has lost colour increasingly since Mary entered the room.

"I'm sorry, darling." There is a tremor in Mary's voice. Her throat feels too tight for words to pass through it, her bottom lip quivering during each pause she prolongs. "Your father didn't deserve me to betray him in such away. It was a mistake, Josephine. A terrible, _terrible_ mistake." She waits for a reaction, any kind of reaction. "But I don't regret it. I _can't_ regret it."

Josephine turns to her with wild eyes that only display complete and utter disgust.

"What?" she spits.

Mary can feel her face burning as she realises how her words could be interpreted.

"I regret that _it_ happened, of course," she assures her. Not that Josephine will believe her. "But if it hadn't have happened, we wouldn't have Robert, would we? And the world would be such a poorer place without him in it."

"Do you know how twisted it is that Catherine and I share a sibling?" Josephine shakes her head, astonished. "Catherine is Robert's sister – the same as me."

She speaks as she thinks; there is no time to be considerate.

Mary closes her eyes to keep her tears at bay.

"She's always disliked being an only child." She is not given the chance to elaborate.

"And do you really think she wanted this?" Josephine laughs without humour. She laughs so hard that the back of her throat begins to burn. She can't bare to look at Mary, even as she talks directly to her. Her tone is accusatory. "You betrayed Father, Mama. Cousin Matthew betrayed Lavinia. Did she deserve what you did to her?"

Mary feels like a child being scolded by its (rightfully) disapproving mother.

"Of course not," she whispers.

"But she knew, didn't she? That's how Catherine found out. She said that on the day Lavinia died, she heard the two of you talking about it." Mary can only nod in reply. "God, that woman! She knew – she bloody _knew_ – and yet she forgave you. She never confronted you about it, not even once?"

"No." Mary runs a finger along the length of her dry bottom lip. "She didn't."

Josephine sighs.

"Father knows." This is not a question.

"Of course he does." Mary shifts on the bed. "Your father knows about everything that goes on in this house, Josephine." As the girl's eyes widen, she quickly adds, "Everything that goes on in this county, in fact."

No one speaks for what seems to be a very long time after that as they both try to process all of what has been said. Eyes, which are now dry, are kept away from one another; hands are folded in laps, legs crossed at the ankles. Mary almost misses her daughter's quiet question of, "And is he?" when it comes.

She frowns and asks a question of her own. "Is he what?"

"My father." Josephine holds her head up high, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth. She is shaking again – not through anger this time, but because of fear. "Is he my father?"

Mary jerks her head as if she has been physically struck. She feels her heart break just a little bit more inside her chest.

"How can you ask that?" she very nearly whimpers. She searches her daughter's empty eyes for an answer.

Josephine snorts.

"With surprising ease, apparently," she quips.

"Oh, darling." Mary clasps her daughter's hand in both of hers and refuses to let go. She speaks in the most definite tone she can find within herself. "You are your father's daughter in every sense of the word."

And it isn't a lie.

Josephine's smile is not genuine, but it is brave.

"Well, that's one thing to be grateful for, at least."

Mary lets out a shaky breath.

"Josephine, I am so, so sorry."

"No, you're not." She pauses for thought, staring down at their joint hands. They are about the same size, which is strange, as Josephine always remembers Mary taking her smaller hand in her larger one when she was younger to comfort her, to cradle her, to cherish her. Life has changed beyond recognition, and it's a scary thought. Josephine is very nearly an adult – and, finally, in the saddest way possible, she feels like one. "Robert doesn't know, does he? He doesn't have a clue."

The panic returns to Mary's chest.

"No. And you won't tell him, either." She becomes the parent again. "Don't think that I don't know how close the two of you are. You don't tell him, Josephine. You must promise me that. He is fourteen years old and he does not deserve to know the truth – not when he has a mother and father who love him as much as your father and I do."

"But he's a bastard," Josephine says. Not unkindly, but in the same way one might state a fact – however grim. "He's your bastard, Mama – and heir to the Earl of Grantham."

"Robert is heir to the title _after_ Tommy because he is Matthew's second oldest cousin, with Tommy being his first," Mary calmy explains. "Regardless of that, the estate is all Catherine's and we will not go changing that."

With this, Josephine has to agree. "No, we will not."

Mary can tell that there is more she wants to say, so she keeps quiet until Josephine is able to find the right words. She slips her hands from beneath her mother's and folds them neatly on top of her lap.

"You know, Father told me something once." She pauses. "He was rather drunk, and you had already gone to bed, and he told me that before the two of you married, you were engaged to Cousin Matthew."

"Almost engaged," Mary is quick to correct her, to which Josephine gives her a quizzical glance. "There's a difference."

Josephine sighs.

"Of course there is," she replies, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "The strange thing is, at the time, I didn't believe him. I couldn't tell you why, but it seems obvious to me now. You and Cousin Matthew have always been close. He's closer to you than he is to Aunt Edith or Aunt Sybil, anyway."

"That's because of where they live; what with Edith down in London and Sybil up in Ireland. It's only natural that—"

"No, Mama. Hear me out." Once she knows that her mother will stay quiet, Josephine continues with a strength in her voice that is beyond her years. "I've always known that you and Father are not madly in love with one another. I've known it, understood it ,and I have learnt to accept it because I thought that you respected each other, at least."

"We do."

Mary is staring at her rings, _their_ rings. Whilst her marriage is not what a marriage should be, Mary did make a commitment to her husband on her wedding day, and it's just a shame that neither party decided to value their vows in the way that they should've. She's always believed in the partnership they have created together. They are good with one another, nice to one another. Love is a hard concept for people like them to grasp, but they do love one another in their own cold, unfeeling ways.

"No, you don't." Josephine sounds desperately, desperately sad. "If you respected him, you wouldn't so much as looked at another man twice. And if he respected you, he wouldn't have allowed you to. He wouldn't have forgiven what is truly unforgivable."

Mary's heart squeezes tightly at the thought of her darling girl never forgiving her, though it is no more than what she deserves.

"Your father hasn't forgiven me, Josephine," she whispers. "I've never asked him to. I've never wanted him to."

Josephine shakes her head disbelievingly.

"You really are deluded," she replies. "Can't you see? Father has raised Robert as his own from the day he was born. You don't need to hear the words to know that they are true. Father has shown you his forgiveness with every day that's passed, with each time he has looked at Robert and called him _son_."

Speaking about such things is exhausting. Josephine closes her eyes and wipes a hand across her face to surpress a yawn. With her head still whirling with the shock of all that has been discussed, Mary stretches her legs out in front of her before she rises from the bed. She allows Josephine to lie down on it.

She is about to bid her daughter goodnight, promising that they can speak more in the morning, when Josephine asks quietly, her face half-burried into a pillow, "Did you and Cousin Matthew have an affair? Or did it only happen the once?"

Mary's heart stops beating.

She struggles to find her words.

"It wasn't an affair," she says softly, but Josephine can hear what she isn't saying.

"How many times, then?"

She approaches the bed and sighs tiredly, willing her heart to slow down now that it has started again, much faster than usual.

"It doesn't matter, Josephine." Mary brushes a hand through Josephine's hair and can't help but smile that she has been allowed her to, however reluctantly. "I'm tired and so are you. I think it's time you went to sleep."

"No," she murmurs, but Mary can tell she is fighting the urge to. "Mama, did you love him?" Mary freezes, but she cannot decide whether it is the shock of the tentative question or the feeling of being found out, _once again_, that causes her to. Josephine frowns; she has worked the answer out for herself. "You still love him, don't you?"

Mary has straightened, grabbing a fistful of sheets and draping them over her daughter's sleepy form. She pretends that she has not heard, pretends that her stomach has not flipped in a way that is all _too_ familiar at his name and her name and the word _love_ between them, an invisible barrier which neither have ever had the strength to break through.

"Go to sleep, Josie," she urges, not noticing her slip of the tongue – but Josephine does. She notices everything, even with one foot in the land of Nod.

"You never call me that," she points out. _Don't ever call me that._

Mary surpresses a yawn of her own.

"Sleep," she says again.

"And what?" Josephine asks skeptically. "Everything will look better in the morning?"

A sudden rush of nostalgia hits Mary. She is taken back to her days as a young woman in society – a wronged young woman in society – with too much to say, too many holes to dig herself in to, and a mother who tried desperately to keep her afloat.

"No, I don't believe it will," she replies honestly. "I am not my mother, but I am yours. I am Robert's, too. Nothing, and no one, will ever change that. Do you understand?"

Josephine nods.

"Goodnight," Mary whispers into her ear. She hesitates, as she usually does, before whispering into the other one, "I love you," however fraudulent that may appear to be now.

She kisses her forehead.

Josephine is already asleep by the time she has left the room.

* * *

_From what I understand, the entail is what prevents the Grantham title and estate from being seperated. In this fic, Matthew manages to break the entail for the sake of his only (legitimate) child, Catherine, so that she can inherit the estate after his death. However, because she is female and because Matthew has no (legitimate) sons, she still cannot inherit the title. Instead, this must be inherited by the next male in the family – Sybil's son, Tommy, who is born in 1923. Robert, who is born in 1925, is the heir after Tommy because he is Mary's son, and therefore a cousin of Matthew's by law._


End file.
